


All I Have to Do

by fluxweed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Frottage, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mistaken Identity, Patented Daydream Charms (Harry Potter), Rimming, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxweed/pseuds/fluxweed
Summary: The Patented Daydream Charm (Adult Edition) allows you to enter a top-quality, highly realistic thirty-minute sexual fantasy. Solitude and privacy spells advised.or: Draco finally has some alone time; Harry just needs to nip in for a book.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 148
Kudos: 1264
Collections: 2020 Harry/Draco Sex Fair





	All I Have to Do

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt [#199A](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12_5f6f0xUXhqtWfMlhXRyA8kDC3KGShN3oa_IOD12DY/edit#): Sexy Patented Daydream Charm. Title from All I Have To Do Is Dream by the Everly Brothers. Huge thanks to J, [Lep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g), [BronwenAckeley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BronwenAckeley) and [Shravani](https://eletriptan.tumblr.com/) for the beta.

“I mean it, Harry. You know I approve of being cautious, but it’s just not _you_.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry says, skirting around an awe-struck first-year who stands frozen in the middle of the corridor.

They’re on their way to the library. Harry would rather not be on his way to the library, as the library contains no places to hide from the stares. But when Hermione is your closest friend, _not_ going to the library is not an option.

“When was the last time you did something spontaneous? The last time you didn’t tie yourself in knots considering every outcome before you did something?”

“When I walked into the Forbidden Forest to get murdered by Voldemort,” Harry says blithely, following Hermione through the double doors of the library’s entrance. “And speaking of despots…”

Madam Pince swoops down on them.

“Granger!”

Hermione jumps about a foot in the air. “Yes, Madam Pince?”

“You have a book overdue!”

Hermione looks so horrified, Harry wonders whether he hadn’t misheard; Hermione’s reaction would be much more suited to an accusation like _You have burned down the entire Transfiguration department!_

“I – I can’t have!” Hermione rifles through her bag and holds out a stack of books. “I only got these out on Thursday!”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Madam Pince swells in outrage.

“No, no, of course not!”

“ _Mind Magic and its Mysteries_!” Pince declares.

Oh, shit.

Hermione whirls on him, and Harry schools his expression into one of surprised innocence.

“Harry,” Hermione says, visibly fighting the urge to shout. “You said you had returned that for me.”

“I was going to,” Harry assures her.

“‘Going to’?” Hermione is turning a bright, vivid crimson, and for a moment Harry is reminded affectionately of Ron.

“Well, you see,” Harry says, very reasonably. “When I got here, this crowd of Ravenclaw girls was leaving, and they were asking all these questions. I had to run into the bathroom to get away from them. I was going to come straight back after they left.”

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice is so strangled, her face so red, that Harry is vaguely concerned she’s literally choking from the force of her own rage. “That was a week ago.”

“Ah, has it been that long already?”

“Where is my _book_?” Madam Pince shrieks.

Harry takes a step back. “It’s in my dormitory!” he assures her. “In my trunk, very safe. I’ll bring it back first thing tomorrow–”

“You’ll bring it back right now!”

“But the common room is on the other side of the castle!” God knows how many people will interrupt him on the way there and back.

“Now!” Pince and Hermione say in unison.

Harry sighs and nods gloomily. He waits for Hermione to lead the way – her glare is the most effective way of scaring off eager fans – but Pince’s talon-like hand falls onto Hermione’s shoulder.

“No,” she says. “Granger stays here. To make sure you come back.”

Hermione gulps.

* * *

Draco tips his head back and savours the sweet silence. He finally has the dormitory to himself. It’s about fucking time.

The group of students who returned to Hogwarts as eighth years is so small that, rather than work out the logistics of setting up new dorms in the existing houses, McGonagall lumped them all together. A corridor on the third floor was destroyed during the Battle; instead of being restored to its former state, the area was converted into a simple common room and two dormitories. In the girls’ dorm, there are six people: Granger, Patil, Patil, Li, Bones and Abbott. In the boys’, there are eight: Draco, Macmillan, Corner, Boot, Goldstein, Thomas, Longbottom and Potter.

Needless to say, privacy is hard to come by.

It’s only because of the winter holidays (starting early this year so the Astronomy Tower can be repaired while most students are away, and isn’t Draco just looking forward to _that_ ) that Draco has even this short stretch of solitude. Even so, there are enough eighth year boys skulking around the castle that he casts a series of privacy charms at the closed door before he feels comfortable enough to reach under the bed for the thing that has been on his mind for months.

Parkinson gave him the package the last time he saw her, two days before the start of term. She pressed it into his hands, winked, and said, “So I can pay you a visit while you’re stuck in that dump. Remind me again why you’re going back?”

He didn’t remind her – they’d argued about it quite enough by that point. And, once he realised what the package was, he knew it wouldn’t be Pansy Parkinson who’d be visiting him when he used it.

He rolls his shoulders. It feels like a pressure has been lifted from them. He can’t remember the last time he could just _be_ , without worrying about the impression he is making to opinionated onlookers.

The only person who doesn’t seem to be watching him all the time these days, waiting for him to fuck up again, is Harry Potter. Draco had always dismissed his fellow Slytherins’ taunts about their constant eye contact, but when he finds himself seeking out Potter’s glare and finding nothing but the back of his head several times a day, he wonders whether they didn’t have a point.

Not that Draco _wants_ Potter to be looking at him. He’s sick of people looking at him. He just wants to keep his head down, get his NEWTs and disappear. Yet people won’t stop _staring_.

He supposes, all things considered, he should be grateful that staring is all they do. Merlin knows he deserves worse.

He settles nervously against his pillows, the box in his hand. It’s a wine-dark red – slightly worn from Draco’s frequent fiddling – with a black ribbon tied around it. The look is simple, tasteful – nothing like the garish inventions Draco confiscated in fifth year, or stared forlornly at from across classrooms during sixth. He’d never guess this was part of the same range – and he rather suspects Parkinson didn’t, either. He can’t imagine her buying something from the Weasleys on purpose.

It’s only the fine gold lettering on the back of the box that identifies its origin: a simple, elegant **WWW** , which twists into an **XXX** under Draco’s fingertips. Beneath the logo is a product description. Draco has it memorised.

> _**Patented Daydream Charm – Adult Edition** _
> 
> _One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic thirty-minute sexual fantasy. Side effects will (if we’ve done our job right) include physical manifestations of arousal; solitude and privacy spells advised. Not for sale to under-seventeens._

Parkinson couldn’t know the gift she’s actually given him. A fantasy. Thirty minutes where he won’t need to hunch under the weight of his past. Thirty minutes where he can act without thought or consequence or shame – where he can just _want_.

He tried to chase that freedom over the summer. He was banned from using magic outside of school, but he didn’t need magic to call the Knight Bus, and the pimpled conductor let him aboard without comment.

He’d heard enough rumours from Half-bloods and Muggle-borns to ask to be dropped in Soho. The Muggles there were ignorant and eager, and Draco fucked enough of them in pungent club bathrooms to know that it didn’t make him feel any better at all.

It wasn’t anonymity he was truly craving. It was forgiveness.

Potter called at the Manor the morning after one of Draco’s excursions. When he saw him, Draco froze, sure he’d been caught, sure he was going to Azkaban for the rest of his life – but Potter just wanted to give Draco’s wand back. He held it out, awkward and casual, like it was a Sickle Draco had dropped in the street.

Draco just stared at it.

“I’m not allowed to use magic,” he said dumbly.

Potter shrugged. “I didn’t know whether you’d be going back to school in September. I’ll see you there, I suppose, if you are.”

At the time, Draco intended to do no such thing. But, one throwaway remark from Potter, and here he is.

He picks the wand up now. It feels uncertain in his hand – has done ever since he got it back, but the thought of getting a new one is hysterical. Where would he go? Ollivanders?

He waves the wand over the box. Nothing happens. Stupid thing. He tries again.

This time, the wand obeys him, and the black ribbon loosens and unwinds itself. The motion of it is somehow sensual – a twitch of interest cuts through Draco’s nerves. The rest of the box opens, folding outwards until it lies flat, spread out against the bedsheets. A scroll levitates above the deconstructed packaging. Draco picks it out of the air.

The first sheet of the scroll is a page of instructions, flowing ink on expensive parchment. Draco scans through them and can’t find anything that puts him off. The incantation will fade from the page once the spell is complete, he learns, and the memory of the incantation will be removed. He nods; he expected something like that. It’s hardly good business sense to offer lifetime access to a charm like this after a single purchase.

The counter-spell is a standard _Finite_ , which can be cast at any time. There’s no prep work required; the charm uses a non-invasive form of Legilimency to respond to pre-existing fantasies, but those with strong wills will be able to direct the flow of the daydream. The charm will fade entirely after exactly thirty minutes. No more, no less.

There’s a second sheet of parchment behind the first. It contains just two words:

> _Alucinor libidinose_

Draco has built up this charm in his head for months, yet the incantation is so simple. Two words. He mouths them to himself until he’s confident he has the syllables right. He casts a _Tempus_. It’s exactly three o’clock.

His heart is pounding. His hand is unsteady; the glowing clock summoned by the _Tempus_ is shaking at the end of his wand. He waves it away. He takes a deep breath.

The Daydream Charm incantation is barely out of his mouth when someone pounds on the door. He quashes his instinctive panic – it’s the fantasy. If it were real, the privacy spells he cast would have muted the knock.

“Yes?” Anticipation roughens his voice.

“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I really have to grab something from my trunk. I promise I won’t look.”

Draco inhales sharply. He knows that voice. He rather suspected that’s who would show up.

“Come in.”

Harry Potter pokes his head around the door, a hand over his eyes.

“I’m really sorry, I know it’s a dick move to take down privacy charms. I just need to get this book. Hermione and Pince are ready to kill me.”

Potter stumbles to his bed – three over from Draco’s – with one hand out, feeling his way, the other still covering his glasses.

Draco stares, taken aback by the performance. He expected an immediate seduction. He expected Potter to appear shirtless and dark-eyed and wanting, leaning over Draco and murmuring praise into his ear. That’s the main scenario that has preoccupied his regular, not-from-a-box fantasies – the curtains around his bed sealed tight, his cock straining in his fist, his lip bitten so hard against his whimpers that he can taste blood.

Then again, he can definitely appreciate the value of a realistic storyline. This is tantalisingly believable.

He sets the _Tempus_ going again – 3:01 – and calls Potter’s name.

Potter freezes.

“Malfoy?” His voice sounds strange. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Did you want it to be someone else?”

“I – No.”

A thrill goes down Draco’s spine. So it begins.

“You don’t have to cover your eyes like that,” he says, aiming for amused, falling somewhat short. “Come here.”

Potter drops his hands and blinks owlishly at Draco. “Oh,” he says. “From the spells on the door, I assumed you were–” He sounds disappointed. It’s a nice touch. “I just need to get Hermione’s book.”

Draco waves a hand. “It’s fine, I don’t need the details. Come here, I said.”

Potter walks haltingly to Draco’s bed. Draco gets eagerly to his feet and circles him, studying him in a way he never normally can, taking in every detail. His eyes linger on the familiar curl of Potter’s hair, the smudges on his glasses, the shadow of stubble on his chin. Potter lets it happen, his expression bewildered. It’s deliciously authentic.

Draco raises a hand and holds it near Potter’s face. He fancies he can even feel the echo of heat coming from Potter’s cheeks. “This really is very impressive charmwork,” he murmurs.

Potter bats his hand away. Draco gapes.

No way.

“What are you playing at, Malfoy?”

Draco’s palm burns where Potter touched it. Excitement floods through him, abrupt and heady.

“Shit,” he says, awed. “I didn’t realise I’d be able to touch you.”

Summoning the visuals of a fantasy through Legilimency is one thing; replicating physical sensation is entirely another. Draco severely underestimated those ostentatious Weasley twins. Twin.

The fantasy version of Potter is still playing dumb. Well, the box did say “highly realistic.” “Who said you could touch me?” he demands.

Potter is glaring and Draco luxuriates in it, the rare force of Potter’s attention almost tangible in its intensity. Then he grabs the front of Potter’s robes, drags him close, and kisses him.

Potter makes a muffled noise of surprise and Draco lets out a giddy laugh – he can _feel_ it, Potter’s breath in Draco’s mouth. He can feel all of him, and it’s so much more than he anticipated, so much more than he ever dared to imagine. Potter is unbelievably warm and solid. His skin is smooth against Draco’s face and his lips are soft – although shocked and unyielding.

Draco breaks away breathlessly to tell the fantasy Potter that he doesn’t need to stick to this realism thing, Draco would rather just get on with it, but once he’s broken the kiss and his eyes have fluttered open, he finds himself quite unable to speak.

Potter is looking at him, mouth agape, like he’s never seen him before. His wide eyes dart between Draco’s like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s searching for something, but isn’t sure what he’s looking for.

His gaze falls to Draco’s mouth. The weight of it shoots straight to Draco’s cock.

There’s a charged moment of heated indecision. Then Potter swoops forwards and kisses him.

Harry Potter is kissing him. _Harry Potter is kissing him_. Never mind that it’s not real, that it’s the product of ten Galleons spent in the back room of a joke shop. It feels real – it feels _so_ real, and Draco can hardly think.

He makes a high, desperate noise, and Potter responds with a murmur of agreement, pressing closer, his lips parting. The charm has reacted to Draco’s desires; there’s no hesitation from him now. He grabs Draco’s hips and heat flares through Draco’s whole body. He can’t stop touching Potter everywhere, anywhere, from his face to his arms to his earlobes – he wants it all. Has wanted it all for so long. He never thought that he could _have_.

The force of Draco’s attention is pushing Potter backwards, both of them wild but Draco more so, fuelled by the knowledge that this is his only chance to know what Potter feels like, tastes like, sounds like. They’re both breathing heavily, hot gasps becoming a single desperate flow of air between them, and it’s making Draco light-headed. He’s rock hard – has been since the moment Potter batted his hand out of the air – but the ache in his trousers is distant, overwhelmed by the taste of Potter’s mouth, the slide of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against Draco’s chin.

Draco presses forwards, chasing more of the roughness, the heat, and Potter’s back hits the post of Draco’s bed. Potter breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale. Denied Potter’s mouth, Draco drags his lips over the coarseness of his jaw, bites his ear, licks his neck. His skin tastes like the outside, like brisk mountain air, like salt and wood and musk. Draco can’t get enough, and lavishes hot kisses down Potter’s throat, yanking his robes out of the way, the softness of Potter’s skin driving him wild.

“Holy shit,” Potter breathes. Draco shudders, the sound of Potter’s dazed voice as potent as the feeling of his skin beneath Draco’s tongue. “What–?”

Draco sinks his teeth into the hard flesh of Potter’s neck and Potter’s question dissolves into a hiss, his fingers digging into Draco’s sides. Draco runs his tongue over the teeth marks, lets the flare of ownership flood through him, lets himself believe in the fantasy for a minute. He won’t let Potter heal the marks. He’ll make sure everyone can see them, make sure everyone knows that Draco gave them to him. He won’t mind their stares so much then.

“Malfoy, god, that’s – C’mere for a minute. Look at me.”

Draco raises his head, licking his lips. Potter’s eyes are intense – dark and dazed. He’s definitely not ignoring Draco now.

“I’m not complaining, but … where did this come from?” Potter asks.

Draco laughs hoarsely, wildly, and kisses him again. Potter’s mouth is perfect, addicting, and Draco loses himself in it, Potter melting into him, his fingers cold on Draco’s jaw. Potter’s nose presses against Draco’s, and Draco is fascinated by the thought of it – _Harry Potter’s nose_. He breaks the kiss and raises his head to nip at it, to run his lips along it, fancying he can feel a bump on the bridge where Draco stamped on his face two years ago. The thought is hysterical – Draco broke Potter’s nose, now he’s kissing it – and there’s no reason for Draco to suppress the giggle that builds in his chest, so he lets it come, lets it burst out of him, the ridiculousness of Harry Potter’s nose under Draco’s lips too much for him to bear.

Potter pulls away and peers anxiously at him. “Hang on. You’re not – Someone hasn’t slipped you a love potion or anything, have they?”

The question and his expression are both so unbelievably, inherently _Potter_ that Draco immediately sobers. How often has he heard Potter’s particular brand of stubborn compassion directed at other people? How often has he quietly, shamefully longed for it to be directed at him, too?

“Malfoy?” Potter prompts.

Draco forces a smirk and allows himself another indulgence. “Will it make you feel better if I say I think you’re a self-important dickhead?”

Potter blinks. Then he laughs – once, brightly, in a way Draco hasn’t seen him laugh all year. Draco wants to _taste_ it, wants to see what other noises he can draw from Potter, and he closes the distance between them to capture it, to swallow it, to make it a part of himself for this glorious, blessed thirty minutes. The kiss consumes him, and he finds himself acting completely without thought – he’s surprised when his fingertips slide against the warm, smooth skin of Potter’s stomach, not having realised that his hands had slipped under Potter’s shirt.

Potter makes a small, hungry noise and shifts underneath him. The friction ignites sparks of pleasure in Draco’s groin, a sharp reminder of his aching hardness, and Draco whimpers, shoving his hips forwards. His dick grinds against Potter’s, and for a moment Draco forgets that of _course_ this fantasy Potter would be hard for him. He whimpers, reaches down immediately to feel the shape of it.

“Fuck, you’re so _hard_.”

“Yeah,” Potter says into Draco’s mouth. “Yeah, god, this is – Malfoy, seriously, you’re so–”

“Merlin,” Draco grinds into Potter’s hip, squeezes Potter’s cock. Potter’s groan feels almost as good as the hard line of his erection. “Merlin, I want to fuck you so much,” Draco breathes.

Potter’s grip on Draco slackens – but returns a moment later, pulling him close, biting at his lower lip. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, okay, let’s – God, Malfoy.”

Draco kisses him again, helplessly, and Potter yanks open Draco’s robes. Buttons ping off and patter over the floor, but Draco barely notices; Potter’s hands find his arse and jerk him closer still, and Draco can feel his rational thought slipping blissfully away with every slide of Potter’s tongue, every shift of his hips.

He’s losing it. He needs to stop – He needs – He needs to do this _properly._

“Take your shirt off,” he murmurs, Potter’s lips still brushing his. “I want to see you.”

Potter pulls back and gazes into his eyes for a long, hot, moment, then – without looking away for a second – pushes Draco backwards.

“You too,” he says, shrugging out of his robes. His eyes burn.

Draco nods, captivated, and follows suit. Potter hesitates with his fingers at his waistband, so Draco goes first, pulling his shirt over his head, emerging with an unpleasant jolt to the sight of the _Tempus_ charm glowing on his bed. Potter has been here eight minutes already. There’s so much Draco still wants to do.

A flash of panic shoots through him, and he focuses back on Potter to find him bare-chested, his shirt discarded on the floor at his feet. Draco’s mouth goes dry. He’s seen Potter undressed – they’ve shared a dormitory for months – but it’s never been for him before. He’s never been allowed to _look_.

“What’s with the _Tempus_?” Potter asks, when Draco continues to stare. Draco steps forward and runs an awed hand down Potter’s naked chest. Fuck.

Draco had assumed that he’d kept his covert ogling of Potter over the last few months to a minimum, but now he’s not so sure: Potter’s chest is almost as familiar as Potter’s face. The dusky nipples, the scar on his sternum, the dark line of hair trailing downwards – Draco already knows it intimately, has already imagined how it would feel, how Potter’s nipple would harden under his thumb, how his stomach muscles would tense as Draco’s hand trailed downwards, what the hitch of his breath would sound like as Draco’s fingers followed the line of hair to the buttons of his trousers.

While Draco acts out his fantasies through this glorious new medium, Potter explores him in turn. His hands are warm as they run down Draco’s sides. His nails are sharp when they dig into his flesh. His finger is tentative but steady when it runs along the scars that dissect Draco’s chest.

Draco goes cold.

“No,” he says shortly, and the charm reacts immediately: Potter nods, slides his hand smoothly around to Draco’s back, down to his arse, tugging him forwards into a soft kiss that washes away the past like blood sluiced down a drain. The touch of Potter’s bare stomach against his is electrifying, and Draco forgets about _Sectumsempra_ , forgets about anything other than this – smooth skin, hardness, heat.

“Your mouth,” Potter breathes. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

Draco whines helplessly; Potter has said that to him before – in other fantasies, where Draco is on his knees in front of Potter, Potter’s hand on the back of his head, Potter’s cock between his lips. He can’t believe he gets to act it out now. He can’t believe–

He drops to his knees, raises fumbling fingers to the buttons of Potter’s trousers. Potter’s hand slides into his hair.

“You don’t have to,” he says, reverent, and once again the abject _Potterness_ of it hits Draco in the chest.

“I want to.” He forces away the ache of longing. “Merlin, I want to.” He’s struggling with the buttons – Potter’s cock is too distracting. It’s so hard and so _hot,_ even through the barrier of Potter’s underwear, and it jumps when Draco’s fingers brush it. “I want to take you apart. Fuck, Potter. You drive me crazy.”

Draco finally wins his battle with the buttons. He yanks Potter’s trousers down and immediately buries his nose in Potter’s crotch. He inhales deeply and lets Potter’s scent surround him, fill him. Potter’s dick presses against Draco’s face – fuck, _fuck_ – and Draco nuzzles it, mouths at it through the cotton, drags his lips along the whole swollen length of it.

“Malfoy,” Potter says weakly, his fingertips hardening to nails against Draco’s scalp, and the sound shoots through Draco, sends heat rushing down his spine. In one swift movement, Draco yanks down Potter’s underwear. Potter’s prick is thick and pink and hard – and hardens further under Draco’s greedy gaze.

Fuck, this charm. Draco’s mouth waters. He wants to taste him. He needs to taste him. He’ll never be able to look the real Potter in the face again, but the real Potter never pays him any attention anyway. Draco licks his lips, takes a steadying breath that doesn’t steady him at all, and takes Potter’s cock into his mouth.

Potter’s hips jerk and he hisses a stream of curses, his nails scraping against Draco’s scalp. Draco moans around his mouthful, lapping at the salty bitterness that bursts forth. He wonders wildly whether the real Potter tastes the same. Fuck, he probably does – if the charm can replicate the nuances of Potter’s ridiculous personality, why couldn’t it replicate the taste of his pre-come? The thought is overwhelming, and Draco bobs his head and sucks hard, rewarding the fantasy of Potter for this gift.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Potter groans. Draco’s name has never sounded so good. Draco looks up – Potter is gazing at him, open-mouthed, dark-eyed, gorgeous – and slides his lips down, down, down, until Potter’s dick nudges the back of his throat. He swallows, and, knowing the charm will let him, presses further, taking Potter into his throat until his nose is pressed against the dark curls of Potter’s public hair.

“Fuck,” Potter says, his voice ragged. His thighs are quivering beneath Draco’s hands. “You – Draco, _god._ ”

Fuck, this _charm_. Draco shudders. The movement is so severe that he chokes and he pulls off, gasping for air. Pre-come and saliva drip down his chin. Potter is looking at him like he’s the most brilliant thing he’s ever seen. Draco drinks it in with watering eyes.

“Let me–” Potter says. He tugs at Draco’s shoulders, pulling him upwards. “God, you’re amazing, that was amazing, let me–”

Draco glances at the _Tempus_. Eighteen minutes left. Not long – not long enough – but, Merlin, he’s not going to forgo the chance to push his aching cock between Harry Potter’s lips. He wants to see Harry Potter suck Draco’s dick and _love it_.

He wipes his mouth and gets shakily to his feet. He’s unsteady. He really should take a minute to catch his breath, but he doesn’t have a minute. Or rather, he only has eighteen of them.

“On your knees, Potter.” His voice is hoarse and lacks the authority he was aiming for, but Potter kneels immediately. He unfastens Draco’s trousers much more efficiently than Draco did his, and Draco hisses when his cock springs free from its confines – he’s painfully, painfully hard. But when Potter reaches for him, Draco finds the strength to bat his hands away. He’s had this particular fantasy for longer than he cares to admit. He’s going to do it right.

He yanks Potter’s head back with a fistful of thick black hair. Potter inhales sharply and grabs Draco’s thighs for balance, but he doesn’t protest. He’s perfect – Draco’s grip on his hair exposes the line of his throat, and he’s just – He’s looking up at Draco, his irises a thin ring of green around dark pupils blown wide. He really is perfect. Draco is going to _defile_ him.

He takes himself in hand, allows himself half a second to let the anticipation of the moment wash through him, then he slaps his cock against Potter’s face. Potter makes a surprised noise, and Draco takes the opportunity to rub the leaking head over Potter’s open mouth. Potter’s tongue darts out to taste him – fuck, it’s so soft and wet and it’s _Potter’s tongue –_ and Draco’s knees nearly give out. He smears the wetness over Potter’s lips, his chin, his cheeks, and Potter’s eyes fall closed, like he’s _enjoying_ it.

“Open your mouth,” Draco rasps. Potter obeys without hesitation, his lips parting, his tongue out, resting flat over his bottom teeth. Draco rubs the head of his cock against the glistening pinkness. He teases himself – teases both of them, going by Potter’s frustrated little moans – and rubs the head of his prick over Potter’s tongue, not letting himself slide inside that hot mouth. Not yet. Potter’s lips wrap around him, and Draco manages to pull back, letting Potter chase him, letting Potter try and take Draco into his mouth again and again, only for Draco to deny him, even though Draco is shaking, even though he wants it so much he could scream.

“Come on,” Potter whines. His breath plays over the head of Draco’s cock, and Draco crumbles. He teases the head against Potter’s lips again, then finally, finally lets himself sink into the wet heat of Potter’s mouth.

Draco’s world implodes.

It’s–

Fuck, it’s–

It’s gloriously, unbelievably realistic.

It’s absolutely fucking mind-blowing.

If Draco had any breath left in him, he’d be groaning praises to every ginger-haired spawn to ever come out of St Mungo’s Maternity Ward – but he’s shocked into silence, the wind completely knocked out of him by the slick, devastating heat of Harry Potter’s mouth.

And the sight – Merlin, the _sight_ of it. Harry Potter is on his knees in front of Draco, naked and hard and sucking Draco’s cock like he was born to do it, like he _loves_ it. Draco can’t stop his hips jerking forwards, and Potter just _takes_ it, one hand wrapped around the base of Draco’s cock, sucking and licking and slurping and driving Draco wild.

And even though Draco is stunned into silence, Potter isn’t quiet. He’s making little appreciative moans, louder each time Draco fucks his mouth, vibrating through Draco’s cock and shooting over his whole body. Fuck. _Fuck_. Draco’s back arches. He wants to come. He wants to come all over this stupid gorgeous famous face.

But there’s still fifteen minutes left.

Draco tightens his hand and yanks Potter’s head back. Potter pulls off with a gasp.

“Wow,” he says breathlessly. He’s a mess. Saliva coats his chin. His lips are red and puffy. And he’s still – He’s still rock hard, his cock dark and pink and divine.

Potter grins up at Draco. “Was that okay? I’ve never done that before.”

Draco whines. Merlin, it’s all he can do not to shove his cock back in Potter’s mouth and fuck his throat to completion. It wouldn’t take long. But then what would they do for the next fifteen minutes? Cuddle?

“On the bed.”

Potter wipes his mouth and scrambles to his feet. “Mine or yours?”

Draco freezes, his knee already on his own mattress. He hasn’t even considered – _Potter’s bed_.

“Yours,” he growls.

Potter grins again. Draco knows the expression well. It’s never been directed at him before.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Potter says. He steps out of his trousers and walks to his bed – Draco follows without thinking, already reaching out to touch Potter again. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanked to the thought of having you in my bed, Malfoy,” Potter adds, casual as anything.

Draco stumbles mid-step. He catches himself on Longbottom’s bedpost, too stunned to be embarrassed, and stares.

Potter looks over his shoulder and bites his lip like he’s abashed. Damn him. _Damn him_. “Ah, sorry. Was that too much?”

Draco answers by throwing himself at Potter and kissing him again, holding his face in both hands and _taking_. Potter clutches at Draco’s shoulders, lets it happen, meets Draco’s frantic, messy kisses with low noises of approval that Draco absolutely cannot handle. He surges forwards until the backs of Potter’s legs hit the bed and he falls onto the mattress, Draco on top of him, straddling him, their teeth clacking together because Draco can’t tear his mouth away for a single second.

Pinning Potter to his bed is its own reward, but the position has other benefits, too – their cocks are trapped between them, Draco’s lined up against the hot line of Potter’s. The sensation is unreal – too real – and Draco grinds downwards, chasing more of it. Potter swears and scrapes his nails down Draco’s back, digs his fingers into Draco’s arse and drags him closer, their cocks sliding against each other, and a high moan escapes Draco. He thrusts his hips again – and again, and again – and rapidly finds himself losing control, thrusting harder and faster, desperate for more heat, more friction, more Potter – always more Potter.

Their mouths are still connected, but their kisses have devolved into mindless, breathless groans. Draco can’t think of anything other than fucking against Potter’s dick. Tension pools at the tops of his thighs. His balls tighten. He’s close again already – But he can’t yet – There’s still time – There’s still–

He wrenches himself away. Potter whines, reaches up to pull him back. Draco wants to die.

“Wand,” Draco gasps, dimly surprised he can still form words. “Where’s my wand?”

He twists, but Potter tightens his grip.

“Let me–” He holds out a hand. Draco’s wand flies into his outstretched palm.

“Give me that,” Draco snaps. He’s not going to be impressed by wandless magic when it’s not even real. He snatches his wand and casts the _Tempus_ again.

3:17. Thirteen minutes left.

“Shit.”

“What?” Potter glances at the time distractedly. He’s still panting, still thrusting his hips minutely, his cock rubbing against Draco’s. “We’ve got ages.”

The fantasy is authentic: it’s exactly what Draco wants to be true. It still hurts.

Potter reaches down and wraps his hand around both of their cocks, pressing them together. Draco’s hold on his wand slackens.

“We could come now, take the edge off,” Potter suggests, his voice low. He moves his hand up and down, once, slowly. A bead of pre-come grows at the tip of Draco’s cock, adds a torturous slipperiness between them. “Then we could spend the rest of the afternoon doing things properly. Everyone else has gone home, and Terry and Anthony are at Hogsmeade, they won’t be back ’till six. I dunno about you, but I’m definitely not gonna last that long.”

Draco allows himself five seconds of indulgence. He gives himself over to the sweet, slow pressure of Potter’s hand, lets his eyes flutter closed, lets Potter’s voice ring in his ears. Lets himself believe it’s real.

Then he grabs Potter’s wrist, yanks it upwards, pins it above Potter’s head. Potter makes a small noise of surprised arousal that Draco is going to be thinking about for the rest of his life.

“How about you last another twelve minutes?” Draco growls, and climbs off him.

“I last – What?” Potter raises himself to his elbows. His dick glistens with Draco’s pre-come.

Suddenly, Draco hates it. He hates Potter and his gorgeous, swollen, mouth-watering dick. He hates this whole charm for showing him what he can never have.

“On your hands and knees,” Draco snaps. Potter stares at him open-mouthed. “Now!”

Potter’s eyes darken at the order – fuck him, _fuck him_ – and he turns over, gets on his knees, displays himself for Draco.

Draco gets on the bed. He scratches his nails down Potter’s back, following the smooth line of his spine, until he has Potter’s pert fucking arse cheeks in the palms of his hands.

“Malfoy?”

“Wider,” Draco orders, slapping Potter’s thigh, and Potter spreads obediently.

Fuck. Him.

“You’re so hot, Potter.” It’s so liberating to say it aloud. It’s so fucking painful. “You bastard. You stupid, untouchable bastard. You’re so hot.”

“I mean,” Potter says hoarsely, “I’m actually in favour of you touching me whenever you finally get round to – _God_ , what are you – _Shit_. _”_

Draco digs his fingers into Potter’s arse and licks another long stripe over his hole. Potter makes that high noise of surprise again. Draco snarls, spreads him wider, exposing him. When he was sucking Potter’s cock, he wanted to reward Potter for letting him have this. Now, he wants to punish him.

“Are you – God, is that your – _unh!_ ” Potter arches his back, pushing his arse backwards. “Malfoy, shit, are you – Are you literally _kissing my arse_ right now?”

“You fucking bet I am,” Draco growls, and buries his face between Potter’s cheeks.

Draco doesn’t tease, doesn’t hold back at all, and Potter’s gasps quickly become groans. His arse presses insistently against Draco’s face, and Draco devours him, consumes him, submerges himself in the taste of Potter, revels in opening up this deep, guarded part of him. Potter squirms, whimpers, babbles into the bedsheets. Draco thinks he can hear muffled “ _Draco!_ ”s mixed in with the curses, and tries to drown out the sound by reaching between Potter’s legs to grab Potter’s cock.

It doesn’t work.

“Fuck, Draco, please – _please_ –”

Draco sharpens his tongue into a point and stabs it into Potter’s tight hole. Potter _whines_ Draco’s name and Draco’s cock throbs so violently that for a second he thinks he’s actually coming.

“Fuck, no, don’t stop.” Potter’s voice is wrecked. “Draco, please – do that again–”

Draco does it again, spearing Potter on his tongue, twisting his hand around the head of Potter’s cock, digging his nails into the flesh of Potter’s arse. He’s shaking, struggling to keep it together, but Potter is worse – he’s _begging_ , writhing, fucking forwards into Draco’s hand and thrusting backwards onto his face.

Draco tears himself away and quickly replaces his tongue with a finger, pushing it into the tight ring of muscle, barely loosened by Draco’s tongue. At some point, Potter has collapsed onto his arms, his face half-obscured by the bedsheets, but what little of it Draco can see is bright red – his eyes scrunched up, praise and profanity falling from his open mouth between ragged, whining breaths.

Draco was not prepared for this. He thought Potter would dirty talk into his ear for half an hour while Draco touched himself. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that he would ever be able to have – that he would ever deserve the chance, even the fictional one–

“Draco, please. _Please_ –”

Potter’s legs are spread wide, his arse in the air. Draco is finger-fucking him, plunging in and out of his clenching hole – so why does Draco feel like he’s the one having his defences torn away, leaving him exposed?

He withdraws his finger – Potter whines – and gropes for his wand.

Ten minutes left.

He waves away the _Tempus_ and aims the wand at his palm.

“ _Lubrico_.”

Nothing happens.

“ _Lubrico_ ,” he insists.

Potter twists around to look. His eyes are bright and unfocused, but even now, even in a fantasy, Draco feels inadequate under his gaze.

“It’s this wand,” he says defensively. “It hasn’t been right since you nicked it.”

Potter raises himself with some difficulty, his arms trembling. He sits up and leans into Draco, resting his forehead on Draco’s cheek, soft and loose and affectionate. He wraps his hand around Draco’s and aims the wand at Draco’s palm. “ _Lubrico._ ”

Something wet and cool fills Draco’s hand, but Draco barely notices – he only needs to turn his head a fraction and his nose is buried in Potter’s hair. He breathes him in. Potter smells like sweat and shampoo and Amortentia and Draco wants to _eat_ him, wants to keep him. Potter laughs softly into Draco’s neck.

“I can’t believe how good you are at _kissing my arse_ ,” he says. “Of all people, I never thought you would be the one to excel at that.”

“You’re insufferable in literally every form, aren’t you?” Draco says automatically, but he doesn’t mean it, not really, certainly not when Potter snickers and mouths kisses along his jaw, his hand still wrapped around Draco’s, warm and comforting and heartbreaking.

“Weren’t you gonna fuck me, Malfoy?” Potter murmurs into Draco’s ear. Draco shivers. “Or am I too insufferable for that?”

“I’m going to fuck you _because_ you’re insufferable,” Draco says, and shoves Potter backwards.

Potter yelps, but laughs again – easily, carelessly, and isn’t that just a kick in the gut – and gets back on his hands and knees.

Potter’s only reaction to Draco’s first finger is a quiet, strained exhalation. By the third, he’s cursing again, fucking himself on Draco’s hand, his head hanging downwards, and Draco can’t think – can’t think of anything other than _hot_ and _tight_ and _Potter_ and _now_.

“Fuck,” Potter says as Draco twists his fingers and pulls out.

“Fuck, please,” he says when Draco lines himself up with shaking hands.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says when Draco pushes forwards into his tight – so _tight_ – hole, the head of his dick meeting clenching resistance then sliding forwards, inch by agonising inch.

“ _Fuuuuck_.” The curse comes from Draco this time, but it’s more of a strangled noise than it is a word, something wrenched from deep inside him. “Fuck, _Potter_.”

“Yes,” Potter says. “Yes, god, yes–”

“It feels so _real_.”

“God, it does,” Potter agrees mindlessly, pushing back against him, taking Draco’s cock deeper. “Feels amazing. _Fuck_ –”

Potter breaks off with a groan as Draco bottoms out, his hips meeting Potter’s arse. He can taste blood – he’s bitten his lip, though it’s not whimpers he’s holding back; something much bigger is trying to claw its way out of him, something that has been buried for years, hidden deep where nobody can get to it, where nobody can hurt him–

Potter begins to squirm, his shoulders rippling, and Draco holds himself still, letting the hot clamp of Potter’s arse turn torturous, even when his legs start trembling, when the urge to thrust and fuck and take is overwhelming.

“You know, I think you’re supposed to move,” Potter bites out, and Draco breaks, is powerless to resist pulling out and shoving back in, both of them groaning.

“Again,” Potter growls, but Draco is already moving, dragging desperate fingernails down Potter’s back and fucking him properly, gracelessly, instinctively chasing the heat, the tightness, Potter’s noises. Potter is clenching fistfuls of bedding and Draco feels it, feels the squeeze of it in his chest, around his heart, so he looks away, raking his eyes down the pink lines that show the echo of Draco’s nails on Potter’s back, traces them to where Draco’s fingers are digging into Potter’s hips.

His gaze catches on the Dark Mark, thick and ugly on the soft flesh of his inner arm. He remembers, suddenly, the last time he allowed himself to believe in something, the last time he opened himself up and felt the thrill of thinking he was powerful, that he was doing the right thing.

He makes a wounded noise and bites down on his lip, the thing inside him threatening to burst forth.

“Wha– What’s wrong?”

Draco hadn’t realised that his pace had faltered, that his hips had stilled, but Potter is peering over his shoulder, checking that Draco is okay as if Draco is worth something. The half of his face that Draco can see is flushed. His fringe is sweaty, sticking to his head. He’s yanked off his glasses and his eyes are incredible – so vivid despite the swollen black of his pupils. For a moment, Draco can’t do anything but stare.

“Malfoy?”

Draco shakes himself. “Turn over,” he says roughly. “On your back. I want to see you.”

Again, Potter obeys without hesitation. He draws himself off Draco’s cock and clumsily arranges himself until he’s spread out on the bed. His cock lies against his belly, hard and dark and leaking. He wraps his hand around it and groans.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks breathlessly. “It feels fucking amazing. I never knew – Next time I wanna do it to you, show you how it feels.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay,” he hears himself say. “Next time, we can do that.”

“Good. But for now,” Potter says, strained, “can you–?”

Draco opens his eyes. Potter’s hips are twitching, his hand gripping his cock but not moving, like he’s waiting for Draco, like he wants to do this together.

“Please, I want–” He spreads his legs wider, offers himself up. Draco throbs at the sight and feels himself slipping, his grip on reality shaken by this awful, brilliant, devastating charm.

“You want me?” Draco says, numbly defaulting to the words he’s said to Potter thousands of times in his head. “You want my cock?”

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Potter hisses, and Draco is pulled towards him, has his dick in his hand and is pushing himself into Potter’s tight heat before he knows what’s happening.

Potter groans and throws his head back and everything else disappears from Draco’s head as suddenly as if Potter had cast _Evanesco_ on his thoughts. It’s so much better being able to see him like this, being able to see all of him, his flushed face, his tight nipples, his gorgeous, wet, mouth-watering prick. Draco’s hips snap forward and it’s like a dam breaking – he can’t hold back a moan of pleasure, can’t stop himself thrusting harder, sharper, deeper, bending Potter in half and fucking him with everything he has.

Potter’s making these desperate little noises with every slap of flesh on flesh, but Draco is greedy, needs to hear more. He’s never fucked anyone in a bed, so he doesn’t know the angle to aim for, but he shifts his hips once, twice – then Potter is yelping, swearing, writhing, staring at Draco with wild eyes, and Draco is stopping himself from coming through sheer force of will.

“Come on,” he grits out. “Come on, Potter, I want to see you – Let me see what it looks like when you come while I’m fucking you – Wanna see you – Wanna feel you – Fuck, _please_ –”

Potter is incoherent, his hand flying over his cock, his curses interspersed with Draco’s name, and it’s the best thing Draco has ever seen, most incredible, hottest, tightest, _wettest_ –

Potter lets out a rough, desperate cry. His back arches, his whole body tenses and he’s coming, ropes of it shooting over his stupid gorgeous chest and that’s it, Draco is destroyed. Orgasm crashes over him, blinding him, deafening him, narrowing his whole world to his pulsing cock and Harry Potter’s clenching arse.

The roar in his ears fades gradually. Fingers of pleasure cling to him long after the world has sharpened into focus.

Potter is boneless, sprawling. He’s watching Draco through heavy eyes. There are pearly ropes of come all over him. His mouth curves into a soft smile.

“That was incredible.”

“You’re incredible.” Draco means it. It’s probably his last chance to say it.

Potter laughs breathlessly, disbelievingly, and Draco has to look away before his heart thumps out of his chest. He diverts his attention downwards and withdraws from Potter’s arse. He hisses. Potter’s hole flexes. A spurt of Draco’s come falls out of him. Draco shivers.

“Where’s my wand?” he rasps, tearing his eyes away.

Potter hands it to him, casually, as if he’s not naked and come-smeared and defenceless, as if Draco doesn’t have a Dark Mark etched into his arm.

It takes him three tries to get the _Tempus_ working – though, to be fair, he’s shaking so much he’s surprised he can even hold the damn wand.

3:29. One minute left.

“Fuck.”

“What is it with that clock?” Potter’s voice is lazy, satisfied, and it _hurts_ that Draco only has him for another minute.

_I love you_ , he suddenly wants to say, but it’s so ridiculous that even in the fantasy, he won’t let the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t know Potter. He’ll never know Potter. He certainly doesn’t _love_ him.

Instead, he leans over until his face is lined up with Potter’s, holding himself on unsteady arms. He takes one last long look, drinking in Potter’s chapped lips, the fine hairs between his eyebrows, all the tiny details he’ll never get to see again, then kisses him, slow and soft and deep. Potter makes a contented little noise that feels like a stab in the gut and kisses him back. Draco wants to cry.

The minute stretches. Draco knows he’s seconds away from waking up on his own bed, cold and sticky and uncomfortable. He braces himself for the snap back to reality.

Potter is still warm and pliant. His tongue slides against Draco’s. Their breaths mingle. The ache in Draco’s chest grows.

Potter shifts and raises a gentle hand to Draco’s jaw. Draco squeezes his eyes closed and whimpers. Any second now.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, while the image of Potter is still here to hear it. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything, for all of it, it was all my fault–”

“Hey,” Potter says. “What are you talking about? Hey – Look at me.”

Draco knows that the fantasy Potter will probably forgive him. He knows it will make his real life so much more painful if so. He knows he’s going to chase it anyway.

He opens his eyes. Potter is still there, frowning up at him. Draco glances at the _Tempus_ involuntarily.

It’s 3:33.

Draco stares, uncomprehending, even as cold horror builds at the base of his spine. Potter was supposed to vanish after exactly thirty minutes. Do they have more time? Maybe Draco misread the three – it could very well have been an eight. He doesn’t know how to feel about the thought of eighty minutes; thirty has been more intense than he could have ever anticipated.

Potter is still frowning up at him – and is still very, unnervingly, solid. Fifty more minutes: imagine! He needs to make sure.

“Don’t clean that up,” he says (if he does have fifty more minutes, he’s going to lick Potter’s chest clean himself) and wrenches himself away, ignoring Potter’s noise of protest. He grabs his wand and dashes across the room to the Daydream Charm box, which is lying abandoned on his bed.

The box definitely says thirty. Draco grabs the scroll of parchment and scans through the first page. Every mention of the time limit has it spelled out: T-H-I-R-T-Y. There’s no way he could be misreading. He looks over his shoulder to check that Potter is still there, and he’s startled to see Potter walking towards him, beautiful, naked, unselfconscious.

“I don’t blame you for any of it, you know,” Potter says, and a desperate little noise claws its way out of Draco’s throat. He pulls off his bedsheets, frantically searching for the second scroll, the one that had the incantation on. It was supposed to disappear as soon as the spell was cast. Maybe – Maybe it changed once Draco read it out. Maybe Draco has somehow won a prize – some extra time.

He’s trying to convince himself, the alternative too much to even contemplate. But when he finds the second scroll of parchment, the incantation is still there.

Potter makes an amused sound and comes to stand next to him. “Is this a Wheezes product?” He picks up the box and cocks his head. “A Daydream Charm? Huh. I’d be up for trying it. Does it work with two people?”

But if the incantation is still there.

And if _Potter_ is still there.

No.

Draco stares at his wand. His useless wand. The wand that only works half of the time.

Surely not.

Impossible.

“What?”

It can’t be.

Really, it _can’t_ be.

He can’t have–

Fuck.

He can’t have actually _fucked Harry Potter_.

“What’s going on?”

Draco can barely feel his own face, but from the worry in Potter’s voice, Draco’s horror is evident. Potter’s eyes slide to the Daydream Charm box – to the incantation on the second scroll – to Draco’s disobedient wand.

“Wait. The _Tempus_ … You thought – Did you think–?”

Draco can’t speak.

Potter swears. His hands shoot down to cover his dick – his real, actual dick that Draco actually had in his real, actual mouth.

Draco is going to prison for the rest of his life.

“I knew something was weird!” Potter scans the mess of clothes on the floor for his pants and tugs them on. Draco should get dressed too – he’s still standing there, naked and frozen – but he can’t – What has he done – He can’t breathe – How can all of that have been real – How can he have _fucked the Saviour of the Wizarding World?_

“Shit, Malfoy,” Potter says. He’s pulling his trousers on, fumbling with the buttons. He abandons the attempt with a huff and looks back to Draco. Draco flinches. Braces himself. “Shit,” Potter says again. “Malfoy – I’m so sorry.”

Draco was already struggling, but at that, some distant, aloof part of him is surprised his brain doesn’t seize up altogether, knocking Draco unconscious out of sheer confusion. The oblivion would be a blessing.

“Wha–?” He wants to ask what Potter could possibly be apologising for, but instead of words, a strange gasping sound escapes him. Potter is on him immediately, his warm hands gripping Draco’s shoulders. Fuck, he’s _real_. He’s really – He’s actually–

“Shit, Malfoy. Breathe,” he says, and Draco obeys him instinctively, dragging in a loud, painful breath through his mouth.

Two more, and he has enough air to plead, “I swear didn’t realise, I _swear_ I didn’t think it was real – Please don’t send me to Azkaban, please, I’ll do anything–”

Potter looks at him as if he’s just begged to be Celestina Warbeck’s new backup dancer. “What are you talking about, Azkaban?”

Another painful gulp of air. “I – I made you – I forced you to–”

“You didn’t force me to do anything,” Potter says firmly. He’s still holding Draco’s shoulders. “I wasn’t the one who thought it wasn’t real.”

“But, you–” Draco remembers the feeling of Potter’s hole spasming around his tongue, the way Potter begged. “What do you – I don’t understand–”

“What?” Potter asks warily. He still isn’t wearing his glasses.

“You actually came in for a book!”

“Yes,” Potter agrees. “And Hermione is definitely going to kill me.”

“And then I – Then we–”

“We did, yeah.”

“I fucked you!”

“Yeah, and I bloody loved it, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I slapped my dick on your face!”

Potter snorts. “Well, I didn’t get quite so much out of that bit, but the look on your face was worth it.”

“The look on my…?”

“You looked like you were about to combust. Quite flattering, really.”

Draco moans in anguish and turns away. Even if he’s not going to Azkaban – and, unbelievably, it doesn’t look like he is – he’s not sure he’ll ever live this down. The things he did to Potter. The things he said. The way he felt. It was all very well and good while he thought it wasn’t real – well, it wasn’t well and good, it was hard and desperate and painful – but now he knows that those things actually happened, that Potter _saw him_ –

He jumps when Potter’s hand touches his shoulder again.

Potter’s real hand. On Draco’s real shoulder.

“Hey,” Potter says. “I really am sorry. I should have realised something was up. It’s just – when you said I was a stuck-up dickhead–”

“Self-important dickhead.” The correction is instinctive.

“Self-important dickhead,” Potter amends solemnly. “I knew it wasn’t a love potion, and it was just so bloody nice to hear.” He huffs a frustrated sigh. “I should have made sure – shouldn’t have been so spontaneous. I’m really sorry if we did anything you didn’t want to do.”

Potter is obviously struggling, his face scrunched up with guilt. _Potter_ is guilty. Given the circumstances, it’s almost laughable.

Draco braces himself for one last hit. “Potter,” he says slowly, because Potter is an idiot who needs things spelling out. “I know it’s a struggle for you, but think it through. I literally thought you were a magical manifestation of my fantasies. Everything we did was something I wanted to do.”

“Oh.” Potter chews his lip and looks away. Draco takes one last chance to drink him in. The real him. His face is sharper without the glasses. Draco likes it.

“You know,” Potter says hesitantly, still not looking at him. “If I cast that charm, I’d probably see you, too.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mumbles.

“I mean it,” Potter insists. He meets Draco’s gaze and there’s that look again – the one that’s so unbelievably _him_. Except it actually _is_ him. “Do you think I’d’ve gone along with it if I wasn’t into it? Now you’re the one not thinking it through. Do you know how many people try to jump me on a daily basis? If I let all of them fuck me, you’d have definitely heard about it.”

Draco scoffs. “You really are self-important.”

“And you’re obnoxious and infuriating and gorgeous. Let’s do this again sometime. If you want to.”

Draco checks the scroll of parchment again. The incantation is still there. But Potter is saying the most ridiculous things, the exact things Draco wants to hear. He _can’t_ be real. He can’t be.

Can he?

“How do I know you’re not actually a fantasy? How do I know you’re not going to fade away in another few minutes?”

Potter’s face breaks into a grin. “Well,” he says, reaching out a hand to Draco. Draco takes it. “Like I said, Terry and Anthony won’t be back ’till six. Why don’t you find out?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://fluxweeed.tumblr.com/). :)


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